A/N: Thanks for reading! I appreciate your comments and concrits.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Special thanks to NaiveEve for being an excellent beta!
-7-
It is 5:00 and the elevator is packed. He scowls at the crush of doctors, nurses, patients, caregivers and decides to let the car go. The wait is worth not having to squash in next to those...people.
The next car is strangely empty, like it is meant just for him.
Now you're suspicious of elevator cars. Doc Schiller's going to have a field day with you...
He presses the 'L' button, tucks away his apprehension and allows a slow grin to slide across his face in anticipation of his imminent freedom. In his mind he is already enjoying the comfort of his Corvette's leather seat, the rich rugged smell of the interior, the way the motor thrums as he hitches his baby into first gear.
You are such a loser.
Watching the lights make their backwards foray to Lobby, he decides he is feeling better again.
You think...?
5...4...3...2...1...
Ding!
The car stops at 'L'. The doors slide open and House steps into the quiet corridor. He gazes around slowly and...runs his tongue across his lower lip, eyes moving, probing, searching.
Baby's got a baa-aad feeling...
Heart racing faster than his Corvette on the interstate, he spins around as the elevator rumbles off for parts unknown. Painted on the wall in ultra gloss black is a large numeral '2',
Make no mistake about where you are, old man.
He knows exactly where he is but he sure isn't happy about it.
"It's suppose to say 'L', " House complains to the Pine-Sol scented corridor. "Lobby."
Laughter, grotesque as a clown in blackface, plays in his head, mocking him, as fluttery fingers trip the light fantastic in his gut. A niggling sense of panic is growing too, expanding, bulging in all the wrong places like some misshapen helium balloon.
Grip the string. Let it take you away.
"Nope," He presses his lips together tightly as he punches the 'down' button.
Well, hey, take a gander up there-above the elevator bank.
Those arrows are putting on a show, flashing red and yellow in a merry rhythm, letting him know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he ain't goin' nowhere.
Up, Down, Up. Up Down, Up. Up, Up, Down, Down. Cha, cha, cha!
His breath hitches, hot and dry in his throat.
Looks like you're in deep shit again, my friend.
"Nope."
I believe thou doth protest a bit too much.
There's the stairwell.
Go for it.
The laughter speaks to him, taunts him, infuriates him as he propels himself toward the stairs.
You are aware that it's ridiculous to even make the attempt.
He thrusts the tip of his cane against the door and shoves...hard. The door flies open with an unusually loud whoosh, his palm tingles against his cane's handle, as if the rubber coated metal is infused with electricity. There is a crackle and spark, which stings his skin but gives him an odd sense of strength.
Don't you fret none, my man. It's all in your mind.
The stairwell is cool but there is an unpleasant dampness here too, like a basement that has long been abandoned...or...
...a graveyard at midnight.
And hey, whaddya know? This is turning out to be a real fine party. Old pal Stench is your host and what a generous fellow he is, offering up a gift: an olfactory amalgam of urine, feces vomit, animal corpses, stagnant pond water and garbage left too long in the sun. Images of these elements play in House's head, lovingly displayed in glorious Technicolor.
He feels sick; his stomach churns, the stairwell takes a spin like a seat on a Tilt-A-Whirl. But he soldiers on, making each lurching step count.
When he reaches the first floor landing he allows himself to pause, drag in a few deep slow breaths through his mouth to get the nausea under control. He then manages to convince himself that the fetid smell is not all that bad when really it is getting worse...and worse...and worse.
One more flight of stairs. Wrapping his fingers tightly around the handrail, he scowls at those steps as if they are the enemy. He knows they don't number more than twenty or so. But the longer he thinks and ponders and worries, the more the steps appear to multiply until there are a hundred of them stretching down a mile.
If he can do this, if he can just get past the stench and the shadows and sinuous chortling in his mind, he will reach the lobby entrance and from there will be home free.
His cane, his only ally in this battle, is a good scout, always one step ahead, checking out the route, rubber tip against stair, tip against stair, tip...against...stair. He keeps his eyes trained on his feet, his cane, feet, cane.
Step...thump...step...thump...
Suddenly there are no stairs left to descend. The metal door before him is marked with a red foot high "L". He shuffles back a step, frowns and lifts his cane to trace the letter with the rubber tip.
Yes, genius, that there is "L", the twelfth letter of the alphabet. It just happens to start such words as loon, loner, loser, and your favorite and mine...LOBBY.
"Lobby." House rolls the word around his tongue. It tastes sweet, like marzipan or those orange candy slices Wilson used to keep on his desk.
Lowering his head, he gazes at his Shox, taps his cane against the gray cement floor, readying himself.
Let's go.
He raises the cane, sets the tip against the center of the "L" and...staggers forward as he...pushes. The door opens. Hot white light invades the stairwell, forcing his pupils to contract. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he takes two steps forward and blinks at his surroundings. The slow realization hits him, as the shivers ride up his back and down his arms, and he can't help chuckle along with that riot of laughter rolling and tumbling in his head.
Painted on the wall, across from where he stands, is the number two in all its glossy black glory.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
House decides he will stay right here. Forever. His team can call him on his cell; he can diagnose patients over the phone. Hell, it's the way he prefers things anyway.
Seriously, though...
Today the second floor is quiet. No panicked footfalls, no nurses rushing around with crash carts, responding to code blue alerts. It's almost as if yesterday's fiasco was all a bad dream.
You wish...
Today there are soft murmurs, bits of chatter, a TV spouts the news. The mood is sedate. The staff, patients and some lost souls who haunt this place, seemingly without purpose, saunter by, going about their business, riding the elevators. The elevators. He sighs, wishing he could be so lucky. His eyes track the riders as they enter the cars and go up, down, to any damn floor they choose: first, third, yes, even the lobby. The idea of taking a chance and casually catching the next ride sounds good. But no, it wouldn't work. He would somehow end up here with his back to the wall again, looking and feeling like a fool. It would be a complete waste of time, a useless ploy that would serve only to postpone the inevitable.
So he pops two Vicodin and sets off down the hall to where he needs to go--to where he is expected to go. The feeling of not having a choice in the matter would usually rile him. But the pills and...something else are quelling that anger, not giving it a chance to germinate, gradually making everything seem ju-ust fine.
Come along...come along...That smooth voice plays in his head, easing his fears, giving him a sense of rightness about this little jaunt.
He turns the corner, spies his destination...
Room 27.
...and he feels it then, that sense of elation, of knowing this is where he is meant to be.
Room 27: white letters and numbers etched into a rectangular black plate attached to the side of the door. Like a blind man, he lets his fingers caress the characters, tracing the texture of the curves and lines as he waits...waits...
...for the sound...
of the cart. Soapy water is in the bucket,
(you can smell the ammonia from here)
spaghetti mop at the ready, attached to the cart whose wheels squeak and squeal, rolling wearily along. The cart is just around the corner. Last time it scared him shitless. But not today.
Without hesitation he turns the corner and spies Manuel hard at work, pushing his mop in slow circles around the white tiled floor.
"Hey." House approaches, digging into his jacket pocket and pulling out the WD40 can. "Here."
Manuel looks up, continuing to move that mop up and back. "You keep."
Three nurses approach, their footfalls quick and purposeful. They chatter away and seem not to notice that they are walking through the cart. House gives their retreating forms a quick look before turning his attention to Manuel again.
"It follows me." House shakes the can then and stuffs it into the pail next to the ammonia bottle and window spray. "No quiero."
The busy man's only response is a shrug.
House returns the shrug, turns and begins to walk away. He is expected elsewhere.
Manuel calls after him. "Doctor, gracias por el dinero para mi familia...mi esposa..."
Thank you for the money for my family...my wife...
"De nada." House raises one hand in reply without looking back.
Very good. How generous you are.
He is glad the voice is back. The feel of it moving over him is nice, like a slow, loving caress.
So...what have we learned, Doctor?
"We have learned that fear is a defense, a way to postpone the inevitable," he recites without moving his lips.
And?
Facing up to your fears is good for the soul.
That is excellent. You are doing so well.
The thought of how fearful he had once been amuses him.
(tickles your funny bone, as your Oma used to say)
What a difference a day makes.
He lets out a sharp shard of laughter, causing a few nurses and a couple of patients to toss him looks of concern and surprise as they pass.
Ssssh. The voice in his head soothes him, warms him. A hand squeezes his shoulder. You're doing fine.
Fear is still out there in that other place, crashing and pummeling against the dam walls but it ain't gettin' in. Not on Greg's watch.
You're doing fine.
His hand brushes the doorknob.
Come along, Doctor. Come along.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Something is wrong.
Outside the room was benevolence. In here a malevolent gray glaze has settled over flatliner, the tubes, the IV drip and the blonde man-thing creature lounging in a chair by the bed. Mort leans to one side, chin against hand, elbow against the armrest, one leg is slung over the other. He cocks a brow and smiles and House can't help but reciprocate.
But smile or no smile, Dude is pissed off, frustrated. The undulating, gelatinous air clues House into the guy's mood.
"I have to tell you, you're a real challenge," Mort says, his leg swinging. "Consider that a compliment."
"It's been said I'm a hard case." House approaches the sleeping patient. His gaze travels over the tubes, the monitor. He reaches to adjust the drip.
"Don't."
The glaze shimmers, throwing off points of white and silver that burst like tiny novas before House's eyes. Undaunted, he finishes adjusting the IV.
"You are pushing it," Mort coos in a gentle yet scolding way.
House 'gets' the message, the warning. It is so obvious, so in his face. But the fear is gone. And without the fear he doesn't care about consequences.
"Just doing my job."
Mort seems to float away from the chair, boot heels barely grazing the floor as he drifts along, situating himself next to House. House can sense the solidity of that body. The realness. There is heat coming off it as well as that now familiar stench of rot and cologne. Mort purrs and twice winds his tail around House's legs.
A slow smirk creeps across House's lips. "Your place or mine?"
"You didn't hold to your side of the bargain." Mort says.
"I know. I'm a cad, ain't I?"
"The offer still stands."
"I never accepted your offer. It was thrust upon me." House replies. "Oh, about last night. Was it good for you?"
Dude shakes his head slowly, sadly. "I've alleviated your pain, I've taken away your fear and still you have no conception of what I'm offering you."
"I was in a stairwell that reeked like a sewage plant, and rode an elevator that had a jones for the second floor. Is that how you think you'll entice me to take your offer?"
"You have to learn," Mort tells him, "that you get what you give. You refuse to repay a kindness, you suffer the consequences. All I'm asking for is an evening, one evening to show you-"
"Take your offer elsewhere. There are plenty other arrogant, sarcastic, MENSA caliber professionals in this world," House says. "Bring one of them the joy. I don't want it."
"I want you."
"Well, I don't want you. So deal with your unrequited lust. Go cry in your wine or whatever it is you...things suck down to get off."
"You don't know what you want. And you won't appreciate what you have until it's taken away." Mort's tail pulls tighter around House's calves, causing House to wince and sway in place.
Sighing, House hangs his head and in his best overblown melodramatic voice replies, "You know, I once had a piece of thigh muscle I loved and lost. We spent every moment together. It was..." He shakes his head slowly. "...a part of me and...I...miss it." His lower lip trembles. "So I know what it's like to be on that losing end." His voice cracks. "I...know."
"Ah, but you see...you don't know. Not really. Not like this..."
Suddenly he finds himself...lost, adrift, like a child's balloon floating off into the mist. And when the realization hits him that he is an exile, doomed to remain in this vast, empty, incomparably sad place, his fear returns. Solitude never bothered him. But this is different. Here there is no sky, no earth, no air. It is a Purgatory of sorts...but not really. Purgatory is a waiting room. This place is...forever.
The snap of Mort's fingers brings him back. House catches his breath, blinks through the haze, and wonders how long he has been gone. Now his right leg is bitching at him, his arms, back and neck ache. It's as if a Mack truck rolled over his body and left him to die. Something's changed, something's gone totally skewed.
"Did you like that?" Mort asks.
"No," House rasps, the residual fear from his vision clawing at him.
Sighing, Mort drapes an arm around House's shoulder. "That's what will happen to you without my intervention." Pulling House closer, Mort's breath warms him as he whispers, "You're a difficult one, a real pain in the butt. They won't know what to do with you so they'll stick you there. Maybe not forever. But certainly long enough."
"Thought you were the man." House rubs his brow, cursing the fear that is now a shivering ball of goo inside his entrails.
"Everyone answers to someone." Mort smiles. "You know that."
Now he is moving, stumbling and staggering forward as if dragged along by an unseen hand. He attempts to slow his progress by leaning hard on his cane, but the cane, his old friend, his only ally, bends and twists beneath his weight. He wonders about this as his body careens into the foot of the bed and takes a hard, ungraceful spill. Groaning as his right leg screams, he hefts the cane with both hands, bends it down the middle then releases one end, marveling, despite his pain, as it wobbles back into place.
It is...a gummy cane.
Gummy. Like the air, like his mind.
"So tonight it is, Doctor." Mort looms over him, whirling the air with one finger like he is stirring a thick soup. Eddies of that gray air spin down, twirling and dissipating before House's eyes.
"I guess."
"Don't disappoint me."
"Nope." House bites his lower lip and rubs his thigh.
"Promise?"
"Mmm hmm." He wishes Mort would just...go away.
"Oh, before I go-"
House tosses him a pained smirk.
"-just to give you a head's up-"
Yeah?
-you might want to know that this guy-" Mort tilts his head toward flatliner.
Shit. Here it comes, boss...
"-is done for."
Three things happen in quick succession:
Flatliner flatlines. The monitor screees its alarm; the gray haze breaks apart like sugar glass, taking Mort with it.
In the time it takes House to shake himself from his stupor and struggle to his feet, he realizes that a crew should have already been in the room with a crash cart, paddles at the ready.
"Damn...damn!" He ignores the torment his joints are handing out and hobbles to the door using his new, improved solid cane. With a grunt he shoulders the door open and shouts, "I need a crash cart in here. STAT!"
His heart pounds a thunderous rhythm against his ribs. He intends to do whatever it takes to keep flatliner alive until help arrives.
But...wait. Behind him is the clink of a cup, the rattle of silverware. Someone coughs. House whips around to find...
...that.flatliner is too busy enjoying his dinner of chicken, corn and mashed potatoes to think about dying right now. The ancient guy from yesterday sits at his bedside. They stare at House. Flatliner holds his fork halfway between his plate and his gaping mouth. The old timer emits a couple of nervous yuks.
"Is there a problem here, Doctor?" the stern voice attacks him from the rear.
With some hesitation, House turns toward that voice, already knowing what he will see.
And there they are-
-the four person medical team waiting with the crash cart.
-and they hate you.
Their eyes meet his, shift collectively to the patient, who is alive and spooning up his lime green jello, then swing questioningly, accusingly back to House.
He makes a great show of looking at his watch, after which he raises his eyes and glares at them. "This was a test, which, I'm sorry to say, you failed miserably. If this patient had to depend on you to save his life he'd be dead now." He pushes past them and growls, "You're useless."
As he tromps down the corridor to the elevators, he can sense the four of them planting virtual daggers in his back. This fills his heart with joy. In spite of everything, he can at least be certain he hasn't lost that magic touch.
Damn you're good. Hey, what time did your watch say, old man?
5:06.
He swallows hard as he reaches the elevator bank. His fingers move to press the 'down' button twice before actually getting the job done..
5:06? Why, hell, that's only six minutes later than when you first started your bad awful trip to the lobby. Seems like you spent a lot longer than that mucking about here, don't it?
It sure does.
Good thing you're going to O'Reilly's with Wilson later.
Good thing.
Getting plastered sounds like a suitable goodbye gift to yourself.
I'm not saying goodbye...
Alrighty then. So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight...
The elevator doors slide open. Inside is a young woman in a wheelchair, a middle aged man wearing a sweater vest and khakis, and two teenage girls whispering in the corner. House saunters in, turns and watches the door close...
...and for just this one sparkling moment, he feels safe.